


having you near

by cupofkey



Series: drabble requests [8]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Awkwardness, Ballroom Dancing, Drabble, F/F, Nyotalia, One Shot, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:27:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26081185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupofkey/pseuds/cupofkey
Summary: Isabel and Chiara go to a dance for the first time. It goes about as well as you'd expect (which is to say, not bad at all.)
Relationships: Female South Italy/Female Spain (Hetalia), South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Series: drabble requests [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822141
Kudos: 13





	having you near

**Author's Note:**

> back with some fun gay yearning! here's some songs I imagine could be the one they're dancing to in this:
> 
> [sabor a mí](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ApiBS3fchg), [bésame mucho](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g4M0hH1R2eU), and [no sé por qué te quiero](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-Ujmf0OQHM)
> 
> anyways I really loved writing this and letting Lesbian Brain take over... if you'd like to request a drabble or just see more about this AU check out my [tumblr](https://cupofkey.tumblr.com)!
> 
> please enjoy :)

“You…” Chiara mumbles, glaring daggers into Isabel. “You need to back the fuck off. This is impossible.”

Isabel chuckles, trying to take the comment in stride, though she ends up stumbling into Chiara’s heel instead. “Uh, sorry?”

Their first social dance as a pair ( _ not _ in a romantic way, Isabel has to remind herself) has gone… 

Well, she would say it’s gone swimmingly, in the sense that neither of them can swim. It’s the second-to-last dance, a slow rumba. Easy. Simple. Entirely too easy and simple, really, for how clumsy and difficult Isabel’s been the entire time. She’s always been a confident lead, a fast learner, light on her feet, and yet—

_ Well, here I am, dancing the follow for once and doing a horrible job of it. _

“Stop doing that,” Chiara mutters, squaring her shoulders as she pulls Isabel into a quick turn. “And loosen the hell up.”

“Uh, what?”

She grimaces, working Isabel into a basic step before lifting an arm and wrapping it around her, swaying ever-so-slightly. “I’m leading, not you. It’s  _ your  _ job to melt into it. Quit backseat driving and relax.”

Isabel gulps and attempts to do so. (If the rush of Chiara’s chest against her back makes her whole body tense up again, well, she doesn’t need to know that.)

It’s just so much. The pressure of Chiara’s hand resting under her shoulder blade, the firmness of their handhold, the faint smell of men’s deodorant and hairspray and Chiara’s freshly-starched shirt, the tender trickling guitar of the song. It’s so, so much. Isabel can hardly think straight, pun intended.

_ At least it’s not a standard dance and we’re not pressed up against each other. At least it’s not the waltz, at least I’m not tripping into her, feeling her legs brushing mine with every step and her hip digging into me— _

Deep breaths. Deep breaths, melt into it, Isabel chants to herself, trying to focus on the music and the steps and the way Chiara sways her hips and extends an elegant hand—

“Stop looking down,” Chiara says, spinning Isabel into her arms  _ again. _

“Okay,” Isabel breathes out.

The singer’s crooning voice, tender and lovely, grabs her by the windpipe and doesn’t let go. The couples around them melt into nothing— the darkness of the ballroom feels all-encompassing, swallowing her, surrounding her in Chiara’s firm hands, in the way her heartbeat throbs through her body.

_ I could just die right here, and it’d be okay. _

And just like that, as if sensing that stability, the song ends— a cheery polka takes its place, something Chiara immediately scowls at before letting go and rushing off the dance floor. Isabel’s left there, petrified, thoughts buzzing and legs numb:

_ God, I… _

_ I really like her. Tonight has been so dreamy. I think I’m going to faint. _

“Excuse me,” someone says, and Isabel snaps out of her frozen self to see a lanky guy with his hands in his pockets. “Uh, would you like to dance?”

She doesn’t mean to do it, really— but she does it anyway, lets her eyes flick over to Chiara sitting on the side, staring right back at her with an expression beyond comprehension—

“Oh, ah, sorry,” Isabel says with an apologetic grin, shaky legs already walking away. “My feet are kind of hurting.”

He smiles lightly, nodding and saying some pleasantry, something Isabel doesn’t catch as she slides into the seat next to Chiara’s.

“You weren’t gonna dance with him?”

Isabel blinks, composes herself. “Ah. Oh. No, just wanted to, uh, sit this one out.”

“Huh,” Chiara says. “Hey, you’re sitting on my jacket.”

“Oh! Sorry,” Isabel says, scrambling to hand it to her.

They sit in silence. On the dance floor, couples are grinning, twirling, rushing by, shoes sliding across hardwood. Isabel’s always loved the polka, the simplicity of the steps, how fun it can be with Julie when they’re essentially just sprinting in circles… 

_ Wait, was Chiara saving this seat for me? _

Isabel glances over, her heart trembling for what must be the millionth time, more than a little terrified of what she’ll see. And for a good reason: Chiara’s taking a long swig from her water bottle, head tilted back and throat bobbing, the line of her jaw sharp and shining with sweat. Her earring barely catches what little light there is, glinting into Isabel’s soul—

Oh, and their hands are barely an inch apart, Chiara’s pinky resting on the very edge of the chair like it’s reaching for Isabel’s, and everything is so faint and fuzzy that Isabel has to stop herself from slumping to the floor.

“Hey,” Chiara says, “are we going now?”

Isabel’s throat doesn’t want to cooperate, so she settles on a quick smile-and-nod and starts unlacing her shoes. Chiara gets to her feet and shrugs on her jacket.

“I’m, uh, giving you a ride home? Right?” Isabel says.

Chiara snorts, zipping her bag shut. “Yeah. Sorry about that, Marzia bailed on picking me up again. Hanging out with her girlfriend or something.”

Isabel grins and slips on her sneakers. “As always, huh?”

“As always, rubbing it in my face,” Chiara huffs. “Come on, you done?”

“Yep! Here, let’s go,” Isabel says, getting to her feet and slinging her bag over her shoulder, Chiara following behind.

The walk to the car is short and quiet— it’s pretty dark out, the moon a mere sliver in the sky and the pavement damp beneath them. Mostly, Isabel doesn’t dare break the easy silence between them, the delicate balance between their breathing and footsteps through the parking lot.

It’s soft, intimate, almost. She holds her breath and tries to keep her eyes (and thoughts) off of Chiara in the moonlight.

“So,” Chiara says once they’re in the car. “That was kind of a fucking disaster.”

Isabel laughs, though it’s more terrified than anything else. “I’m. Ha. I’m sorry about that. We—”

“Wasn’t a bad time though.”

“I was really—” Isabel catches herself and takes a deep breath. “Ah. Sorry. Um, yeah! I had fun.”

Chiara turns to look out the window, resting her cheek on her fist. “Yeah.”

Isabel puts her hands on the steering wheel and tries to breathe normally.  _ Does this mean she had fun too? Does she like dancing with me? Is she…  _

Chiara clears her throat. “Do you…” Something nervous sneaks into her voice, something that makes Isabel’s face start to burn.

“Do you, uh,” she continues. “Are you free next weekend? For this. Again.”

Every single part of the night rushes back through Isabel, the awkward parts, the smooth parts, the parts where she mooned over a girl who looked ready to commit murder-suicide the whole time—

“Yes! Yeah, of course,” she says, the words bursting out before she can stop herself. “Yes. For sure, I am.”

“Huh,” Chiara says.

“Yeah,” Isabel repeats.

“Are you gonna start driving anytime soon?”

“Oh! Oh, yeah, sorry, lost track of time…”

Later, as she’s pulling into Chiara’s driveway:

“I’m free too,” Chiara says, grabbing her bag and unbuckling her seatbelt. “Text me. I guess.”

And she’s gone, walking inside, a light breeze ruffling through her hair. Isabel has never felt giddier in her life.


End file.
